


A Work Of Art

by eydemons



Category: Inception
Genre: Drabble, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 11:33:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4347035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eydemons/pseuds/eydemons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What's a better metaphor?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Work Of Art

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this on my phone at 3AM, uhhhh sorry

"And could you do me?"

A sentence Arthur realizes, that without context, is quite the euphemism. Eames catches it, smirking blossoming over his face. Arthur just glares at him, but the expression remains.

"Why, Darling? Would you like me to?" he asks, quirking an eyebrow, arms folding across his chest, leaning his upper body downwards towards where Arthur sits, just feet away.

They're in a warehouse Arthur has built from scattered memories, never full ones. A dull, damp basement of a building, constructed for this purpose alone. Eames wanted to show Arthur his new party trick.

A forger, he is, in ways Arthur finds, just, incredible, for a lack of a better word. Imitations past the ways known possible. He's no master yet, but Eames has not been known as one to give up on anything.

_"Why can't you show Cobb and I together?" Arthur had asked before they went under, "Can't you just wait till later?"_

_"I want to know what you think first," Eames practically purred, his accent drawing out the s. A snake, is what Arthur would compare him to, but not in any way malicious, more of a fascination._

"Well could you?" Arthur asked, planting his feet on the floor, and using his legs to push him slightly backwards, out of Eames' shadow. He just follows him, the shadowing reappearing over his face. Arthur huffs a breath, looks away, and Eames looks smug, like he'd won an unspoken battle. Stepping back, and out of Arthur's personal space, he's almost sad to see him go.

"I could do Cobb, and Mal and, quite honestly, just about anybody, love." Eames replies, and he almost looks shaken, embarrassed.

He proves this, cycling through a number of people Arthur has never seen before, excluding Cobb and Mal. The only person missing is himself.

Imitating Eames' previous expression, Arthur quirks an eyebrow. Like he'd caught a friend on a dirty secret, though he's not privy to it.

"So you can't." It's not a question. "Why?"

Eames, while before he looked embarrassed, now looks frightened. Breath heavy, but calculated, coming in loud, but even pants.

Arthur almost feels bad about pushing.

He rolls his chair back behind him and stands promptly up from it. Eames' eyes are wide but, not once have they broken eye contact.

Arthur waits until he hears the chair slowly crash into the wall behind him.

"What's going on? Is it because I'm the dreamer-"

Arthur had been so ready to figure it out without Eames' help. He'd just figured he wasn't getting a reply any time soon, with the way the other man seemed to be gawking at him.

In the midst of his sentence, it's like life returned to Eames, the wide eyes disappearing into the squinty smirk Arthur's gotten so used to, though a hint of it still remains.

"No," is what Eames cuts him off with, "It's because you're _you_." If a word could be italicized in real speech, the way Eames had pronounced 'you' like he'd just pushed it out his soul, would be it. It's almost desperate and so out of character.

Arthur swallows, nodding, though not understanding.

They're standing across from each other, not faltering their gazes from each other's eyes, another unspoken battle.

Arthur's arms are folding across his chest, hands occasionally twitching, and Eames is mirroring him.

"And what-"

"Darling-"

They've even mirrored each other on when to speak.

Eames doesn't falter this time, continuing, "Darling, you're a work of art," his voice sounds breathless.

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, and swallows the lump that's formed in his throat.

"You don't very well repaint the Mona Lisa and call it your own," he sounds almost self depriving, angry with himself. "You call it an imitation, because you can't quite get it right."

Arthur's opened his eyes now, and Eames, while he looks composed, his back straight, eyes unwavering still, but the rest of him gives him away, the smirk that continues to falter into a frown, the way he's continued to mirror Arthur.

A way for someone to get them to like you, to agree with you. Copy their body language.

Arthur can feel his hands shaking, so he tucks them further into his armpits, and Eames does the same.

"Sometimes you just need practice." Arthur retorts, voice clear, sarcastic, but kind.

Eames grins at this, likes he's grateful for the slight change in mood, but he shakes his head still. "There'll always be something missing," he explains, "the type of paint, the lack of originality."

Arthur is unsure whether these descriptions are metaphors about him or not, "Not every one knows me like you seem to do, Eames."He supplies.

Eames almost looks offended, "No, Darling, I guess they don't."

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this because I wanted an excuse for Eames to call Arthur a work of art. Fight me.


End file.
